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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25639804">Leave a Note: Johnlock</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spymaster13/pseuds/Spymaster13'>Spymaster13</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>BAMF Harry Watson, Hurt John Watson, M/M, Missing Scene, Moriarty is Dead, Mrs. Hudson Ships It, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, Post-Season/Series 02, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Episode: s03e01 The Empty Hearse, Protective Mycroft, Reichenbach Falls, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock is a Mess, Therapy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 11:27:50</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,508</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25639804</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spymaster13/pseuds/Spymaster13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A year after the Fall, John's therapist grows worried and puts a phone call through to Mycroft Holmes. What ensues may not be what John Watson wants at all, but what he needs to save his own life.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sherlock Holmes/Jim Moriarty, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>72</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Johnlock: Leave a Note</p>
<p>"Stay exactly where you are."</p>
<p>"Alright-" </p>
<p>"Don't move. Please, can you do this for me?"</p>
<p>"Do what? Sherlock?"</p>
<p>"This phone call. It's my note. It's what people do, isn't it? Leave a note."</p>
<p>"Leave a note when?"</p>
<p>"Goodbye, John." </p>
<p>"No. No- don't. Don't...SHERLOCK!!" </p>
<p>What was left of John Watson's heart shattered as Sherlock threw the phone across the roof, the small, useless device breaking into a million pieces of glass as the detective spoke his last words. Sherlock's hair wisped around his face, obscuring his sharp, pointed cheekbones as he looked down at John Watson, standing so small beneath him and the grey London skyline stretching out like a giant. He memorized every feature, every expression of those blue eyes that he knew he would not see for a long time from the distance of the roof. Sherlock had never hated anything more than John's pained expression permanently etched onto the framework of his mind palace. He could see the exact moment that color drained out of John Watson's eyes, he could see the second that the life force that made up John snapped, shattered.</p>
<p>It was then that Sherlock realized he *was* John Watson's life, he had brought back the joys, the terrors, the thrill of the chase, the two of them against the rest of the world. He had brought the wounded soldier back into the world. Below him was not John Watson any more. Below him stood an ex army doctor, haunted with his nightmares and trauma of the Afghanistan wars that Sherlock had so rightfully deduced the moment he laid eyes on this broken man. Sherlock knew, had a feeling at least, that so much more lay beneath the surface, and he was right. He'd brought it back the snarky comments, the laughter and bad jokes, the fierce loyalty, and now it was gone again. And it was the first time in his life that Sherlock wondered about another person's feelings. </p>
<p>Sherlock wondered if John would be seeing his therapist again. Sherlock wondered how long she would last before she became too painful for John and he replaced her. Sherlock wondered if John would stay in Baker Street or if Mrs. Hudson found it strange without the pair of them living there, like it always had been. She had always been going on about silly things with them, hadn't she? Silly things like...love. And caring. And- sex. Human things. Perhaps Mrs. Hudson was right. Sherlock wondered if John would go back to using his cane again. The return of the psychosomatic limp. </p>
<p>Caring was *not* an advantage. The sentiment had been drilled into Sherlock's head from a young age by his brother to keep his heart under lock and key. And so, he had built up so many layers of protective armor around it that he may as well have been a pirate. John Watson had been the closest thing Sherlock had ever considered as a friend, perhaps something more. And that made this excruciatingly more painful than it already was. </p>
<p>These thoughts had whirled around, entered and left Sherlock's mind in the brief span of the precious few seconds he had to look into John's eyes for the last time after dropping his phone, shattering the evidence that Sherlock Holmes indeed cared and indeed had feelings. Well, it wasn't the only evidence. As he said. He left a note.</p>
<p>The detective looked up through his curls at the speckled, rainy London sky and spread his arms. He took a breath, the plan slid into place.</p>
<p>Sherlock Holmes jumped from the roof of St Barts, and a ruined detective fell. </p>
<p>......<br/>
It was almost exactly a year after the fall. John Watson had never been more miserable in his life, even after returning from the war where he had lost everything. His best mates on his brigade, his right shoulder bone, his sanity. Of course, he made himself *seem* put together, made himself *seem* fine, and *seem* like he was recovering and moving on. But Lestrade worried when John was forced to leave Baker Street after not being able to afford rent for the fifth time, Mrs. Hudson begged John to leave his gun behind because it was what Sherlock would have wanted. Molly's eyes drifted over to the locked case he kept it in by his bedside table every time she dropped by his new flat. Almost as if it was sitting there, waiting. </p>
<p>John's therapist had been on red alert for any kind of warning sign, so it struck her as even more terrifying how sanguine John appeared about everything. She even had a regular hotline to Mycroft Holmes that she was sure John didn't know about. If he did find out, he would almost certainly call it quits and find a new therapist, and that was the last thing she wished him to do right now. You see, Sherlock had direct contact with Mycroft, bar her knowledge. But if John showed the slightest warning sign, he would tell his baby brother in an instant and Sherlock would, without a doubt, find his way back to London before Mycroft could say 'aluminum.' </p>
<p>Such was the unknown paradox that John Watson found himself sitting in when he booked his next therapy appointment the day before Reichenbach. He had it in his phone calendar as 'Sherlock day' and frequently checked it with nervous, shaking hands before the meeting. His therapist office had always been a bit dull and grey, but that was what John liked about it. Consistency. So much had changed over the last year, but she still kept that damn fern plant in the corner and a cosy setting of a couch with a throw blanket, comfy chairs and a tea bar. The British elements hailed against the window as John stared into space. </p>
<p>"John?" </p>
<p>"Hm? Sorry, miles away."</p>
<p>"John, we've been over this," she sighed, noting down 'disassociation to cope' in small letters. "I know it's challenging, but you've been doing really well the past few weeks. You need to stay in the present. The past isn't a healthy place for you to be right now, John." </p>
<p>"A present where my best friend is dead and presumably I've accepted and moved on from that burden?" John said after drawing in a sigh.</p>
<p>"Well...yes," his therapist said gently. "John. The rest of the world believes your story. They know you suffered in his care. They worry about you, John. Christ, *I* worry about you."</p>
<p>"Why?" John swallowed. "Aren't you supposed to remain impartial?"</p>
<p>"My concerns are strictly professional," she said with a gentle smile. </p>
<p>"Why bring him up now?" John asked, tilting his head as a sinking feeling grew in his chest. "You haven't mentioned Sher- Sherlock for months. It was a welcome change, I'm not complaining. Making it about *me* for once instead of the detective's sidekick." </p>
<p>"John," she said kindly. "You were *never* a sidekick. Not to me, and certainly not to Sherlock Holmes." </p>
<p>"Can- can you just- stop?" John sucked in a breath, clenching his knuckles. "Can you *stop* saying that name. Please." </p>
<p>His therapist sat up at once upon seeing how much this unnerved John. He could hear her soft voice in the background like a distant song telling him to breathe. Just- breathe. He slowly complied, an annoying voice in his head muttering *what's the point, this is stupid* that sounded oddly like Sherlock. He felt his stomach and internal organs start to flow properly again as the world slid back into place, his doctors mind whirling as he felt his body function again.</p>
<p>"You ok?" his therapist gently spoke, giving John time to make an indiscernible response. "Do you have any plans for tomorrow?" </p>
<p>"Tomorrow?" John asked, feigning innocence. "What's special about tomorrow?" </p>
<p>"You have it in your phone as 'Sherlock Day,'" his therapist sighed. "I took note as you came in, no need to worry. John. It's almost exactly a year. You *have* to see reason soon. He's not coming back." </p>
<p>There was an abysmal long pause as John's hand resumed it's tremor. He looked around the room, at the fern plant, at the coffee bar with those stupid English Breakfast and Earl Grey packaging placed in a wired bin by the bubbling water machine. Sherlock always took black coffee, two sugars. *Christ*. Maybe his therapist was right. Maybe it was time to let go. But he couldn't do it. </p>
<p>"I'm going to see him again," the rushed words fell from John's lips before he could stop them. </p>
<p>His therapist looked rather alarmed as she jotted his words down and he finally caught her gaze, the most peaceful and sanguine look he'd ever given her. Her eyes were wide and terrified, as though she'd been waiting for him to say something like this. </p>
<p>"What?" </p>
<p>"You asked what I had planned," said John. "I'm going to see him tomorrow. I'm sure of it."</p>
<p>John ended the appointment on a happy note, making sure to tell her two things that had gone well in his life as he always did before he left. He had met someone new at work that potentially was interested in him, and his rent had been delayed that month, giving him ample time to catch up on his files and paperwork. John could tell that she wasn't convinced, she knew him very well since she was a regular reader of his blog and had met him before Sherlock Holmes had barged into his life. John had the idea form in his mind over the previous week that perhaps he would see Sherlock again a year later, and hadn't been able to shake it off since. He left the office with a nervous energy buzzing around inside him, and opened his blog for the first time in months when he had returned to his flat.</p>
<p>Nothing. He was sure- he was so sure there would be messages, a sign, something. Perhaps Sherlock would hack the website, perhaps he would change the view count, he could do that, couldn't he? He had hacked all of Scotland Yard's phones one time, of course he could. Still, the nervous ball of energy felt like it was slowly deflating as his eyes drifted over to the locked up gun by his bedside table. Tomorrow. There was always tomorrow. Something stopped him from reaching over and unlocking the hinges, a wonderful feeling he hadn't experienced since Sherlock days. Hope. Some sort of hope, any hope. That perhaps he would simply receive a sign. It was all he needed. A sign that Sherlock was safe. </p>
<p>Because John Watson refused to believe that Sherlock was dead. </p>
<p>His therapist had taken out her phone immediately after he left and dialed the number of Mycroft Holmes, nervously pacing by the window. </p>
<p>"Hello, you've reached Mycroft Holmes' secretary, I'm afraid he's rather tied up with important meetings, but if you leave your name and address-" </p>
<p>"I have information for Mycroft, concerning the wellbeing of John Watson." </p>
<p>John's therapist bit her nail as she looked out at the hailing rain, the secretary had paused before saying that she would of course transfer her right over to her boss. She sucked in a breath, she wasn't supposed to go against her code of conduct, this was wrong in every possible way. Breaching John Watson's trust- oh god, would he replace her? But if it saved his life, surely it was worth it...</p>
<p>"I do hope this is important," Mycroft's bored voice drawled through the phone line. "I've had to put off a meeting with the Ambassador of the UN." </p>
<p>"It's John," she said nervously. "He's- Mr. Holmes, I think he's planning-" </p>
<p>"Tomorrow?" Mycroft said sharply, deducing her cracked voice. "Are we to assume the worst?" </p>
<p>"He's got a gun at his flat," she said quickly. "Mr. Holmes, you said to call if I was absolutely sure..."</p>
<p>"May I ask what alarmed you?" said Mycroft, she could almost hear the raised eyebrow. "You could have bothered me plenty of times before now. Thank you for not attempting to by the way, I do so loathe dealing with the commoners." </p>
<p>"He said he was going to see Sherlock again," she said, the line had gone quiet with the faint sound of Mycroft's breathing. "Well, I can only think that would mean..." </p>
<p>"Yes," Mycroft replied, finally. "Thank you Mindy, I do believe that is of concern. Your attempts to console him will not be in vain, I assure you." </p>
<p>Click. The line went dead. No promise of a follow up, no assurance that John Watson would be alright, that Myrcroft's band of government men would go to his flat tomorrow and apprehend his gun, no guarantee of John Watson's safety from his own demons. That was supposed to be her job. She had felt that if Mycroft was helping her, perhaps it would lift her spirits at least in the sense that John would be well equipped to be taken care of by his friends, but instead she felt worse than she ever had. </p>
<p>The hailing wind and rain seemed to echo the first appointment that John had attended after the fall, after Sherlock's face had appeared on every tv screen in the country with the headline that Sherlock Holmes was a fake, he had created Moriarty for his own purposes, he had created and solved each and every case that Scotland Yard had supposedly assigned to him and he was manipulating the poor ex soldier John Watson. It seemed London itself was crying for Sherlock, and for the separation from the one place he needed to be. </p>
<p>Across the world in a prison camp in Albania, Sherlock Holmes received a text. A reply was sent back 2 hours later. </p>
<p>'Give me the best disguise you can put together in an hour. </p>
<p>For gods sake, get someone to take that damn gun away from him.'<br/>
-SH<br/>
.....</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter Two</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Mycroft Holmes gets in touch with John after the concerning talk with his therapist and John meets a French stranger in the local bar. Are the two events connected?</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Chapter Two</p>
<p> John woke up the following day with the indescribable feeling of utter dread. Everyone around him seemed to think that this was the day he would accept that Sherlock Holmes was dead and never coming back, and perhaps he would move on with his life. But in John's mind, his unstable, unkept mind, there were two alternatives. The first and most favorable, of course, was that Sherlock would just bloody come back like he was *supposed* to. John had a feeling that some people around him knew something he *didn't.* </p>
<p> Almost like they had been let in on a secret of how Sherlock survived the fall. He had to have survived. He knew everything about Moriarty, he knew how to fall, he knew how the trajectory of the St. Bart's rooftop worked, for christ sakes, he practically lived at St. Barts when he wasn't at Baker Street. John was slowly starting to realize that it was Sherlock who had chosen the place for the fall, and Sherlock who planned everything down to the last detail, just as he always did. Hold on- the phone call. The phone call John had received about Mrs. Hudson having been shot. It *had* to have been part of Sherlock's plan to get him out of the way of any potential danger, but Mrs. Hudson had seemed oblivious to anything that was going on at St. Barts. So then, who *did* know about Sherlock's careful planning to get John out of the way for his life defying act?</p>
<p>*Mycroft.* Of course. It was so painfully obvious that John smacked his forehead for not catching on sooner. Of course his older brother had been involved in faking his death. Of course Sherlock hadn't been able to pull off such a miraculous feat alone. Because that *had* to have been what happened, right? Right? John hesitated, pacing his flat, his small empty flat that didn't feel anything like home to him. God, he felt so out of place. Where was the telltale wallpaper that screamed 221B? Where was the yellow smiley face that Sherlock had painted into the walls that frequently took a pounding from his gun when he got the slightest bit bored? He opened his mobile, 27 missed texts dated this morning alone. </p>
<p>Jesus. He hadn't realized he had given a cause for so many people to be concerned about him. People connected to *Sherlock.* Oh god, here was the stabbing pain at his heart, they would all be 'so sorry, offering their most sincere condolences,' just as John had to deal with for months on end now. He'd disconnected his mobile number at first because the sheer amount of sympathy texts he'd gotten each day was overwhelming. It was his way of coping. The names on the screen were familiar but like a distant dream that he couldn't quite place. 'Molly. Lestrade. Molly. Molly. Mike. Mike. Harry. *Mycroft.* </p>
<p>The name he most wanted to see. After getting his phone repaired from the hit and run by the bike, John had replaced the number and given it only to people who mattered to him, people he trusted wouldn't badger him about if he needed them to run to the shops for him or if he needed a sit down and a cuppa. But Mycroft being Mycroft, of course, must have managed to get his new number from the powers that be. *That* had to be a sign, if anything. Mycroft hadn't called or texted John since thei meeting before the fall. John hesitated, and felt half a mind to hang up during the telltale British dial tone. Perhaps he was busy, in a meeting, perhaps he would be put through to his secretary, then he would definitely hang up and not try again...</p>
<p>"John! How nice," the cheerfulness in Myrcoft's voice sounded extremely forced, like usual. "I do hope your new flat is treating you well."</p>
<p>"How- never mind," John sighed, pinching his nose. "Listen, I- er- I'm not quite sure *why* I called, really..."</p>
<p>"John," Mycroft said, an obvious talking down tone to his voice. "Unlike my brother chooses to believe, I am no stranger to human emotions. I presume there to be a concrete reason you've reached out to contact me." </p>
<p>"Oh," said John, still getting over the shock of actually hearing Mycroft speak after half a year. "Well- um, it's- nice to hear your voice?"</p>
<p>"Let's cut to the chase, shall we?" Mycroft sighed. "My time *is* rather in high demand these days. John. Do you have any plans at all, have you even *considered* using the gun that's currently locked up in your flat in a case with the passcode 221?" </p>
<p> John felt a cold numbness surge through his body. Finding out about his new phone number and him moving out of 221B, he could believe. He was Mycroft, after all, his first meeting he had shown his considerable power and control over London with the security cameras on Oxford Street. But finding out about his gun, knowing that he kept it locked up when no one except Sherlock and his therapist knew about it...</p>
<p>"Mycroft," he said once he had found his voice. "How the *hell* do you know about the gun? One of the only people who could tell you is dead." </p>
<p>"Indeed? So you are perhaps starting to accept that my brother is dead," said Mycroft. "Good. That's good, isn't it?"</p>
<p>"Is it?" John quipped, the anger clear in his tone. </p>
<p>"John, the only reason I am *aware* of the gun is because I got a confidential tip off from a party who for the sake of professionalism, wishes to remain unnamed," Mycroft replied.</p>
<p>"My therapist," John sighed, sinking into a chair. 'Right, of course. Can't trust *anyone,* even a bloody healthcare professional around the Holmes boys. How long have you had her information?"</p>
<p>"Since the start," Mycroft admitted nonchalantly. "In case of any- emergencies. She seems to think you need enough worrying about to interrupt the flow of the British government." </p>
<p>"She's wrong," John bit back instantly. </p>
<p>"I do believe my brother would disagree with you," said Mycroft. "Would you care to explain why you have today in your phone blocked off as 'Sherlock Day'?"</p>
<p>"No." </p>
<p> Mycroft was starting to annoy him now. Not in the least because he had his therapists information all the bloody times he'd ever been inside 221B and visiting Sherlock or dropping them off a new case for the government, but he was disappointed. John didn't know what he expected with this call. Perhaps a secret code word or a shared signal on behalf of his own brother to his best friend? But instead he seemed just as determined as everyone else to further John's belief that Sherlock had *not* survived. </p>
<p>"Your therapist also passed on- you seem to believe you're going to see my brother again today," said Mycroft. "This, ultimately, was what created the said conversation between both parties, else I truly don't believe there would have been cause for such contact at all. You can see where I'm going with this even with the limits of your mind, I'm sure." </p>
<p>"Right," said John, only just now realizing how *stupid* he had been and how careless those words were. "Well. So you know, I don't have any plans of suicidal intention." </p>
<p>"Really?" John could hear Mycroft's raised eyebrow over the phone line. "I'm delighted to hear it. I'm sure my brother wouldn't want his last attempt to save the people he loved be tarnished in vain by the blood stains of war. I hoped you would at the very least be agreeable when it came to your mental health, John, especially when it involved convictions that have to deal with my brother. Perhaps my provisions against you were wrong. I suspect someone will be in contact shortly. Pleasant evening, John. You have my number for the time being, should the need to call arise." </p>
<p>"Mycroft-"</p>
<p>John let out a long sigh at the click and long dial tone, all the tension that had built up in his shoulders during the call releasing as he kicked the kitchen table in frustration. A small, rickety thing he'd been able to afford from Ikea with the hours he was now working. Goddamn it. *Fuck.* He should have been more careful. Of course his therapist was connected to Mycroft, there wasn't a single bloody thing in his life that wasn't. He thought briefly about replacing her, but ultimately decided against it. Even with what she had done, she didn't deserve that.</p>
<p> John had what some would call an unhealthy loyalty to the people who had helped and consoled him, brought him back to life after the war. He gave another sigh, his head in his hands as he ruffled his sandy colored hair. He had taken today off work to grieve. He'd go to the pub. Have a pint on Sherlock Holmes. Pulling magnetism of a creepy, unnatural sort that he didn't like at all was drawing him ever nearer to the locked up gun case. </p>
<p>Instead, John shook his head and closed the door behind him. </p>
<p>.....<br/>Sherlock's POV</p>
<p> Sherlock knew very well that the most dangerous thing he could do right now was to return to London. But he also knew that John would be in an extremely vulnerable place, and that he had a gun locked up in his flat that he could use at any time. Normally he would trust John with such a dilemma, but unstable John Watson was a separate case all together that Sherlock had to allow for. Unpredictable. Sherlock didn't like this when it came to John, he knew John liked things to stay the same, he liked dullness, predicability, and it was all too understandable after the horrors he had suffered in Afghanistan. Sherlock and Mycroft had an agreement: only if things seemed intensely dire, only if John uttered certain trigger words, would there be cause for him to return.</p>
<p>Sherlock was aware that the most dangerous criminal and sniper network Moriarty had set up would be on the highest alert for his return, and would do anything in their power to kill him. But Sherlock also knew five separate languages. One less than his brother, but Japanese always tripped him up. He knew Latin, Italian, Swedish, Spanish and French like the back of his hand. French was the accent he had ultimately prepared on a whim as Mycroft gave him the rundown of his latest disguise. A well off painter recently returned from a holiday to Norway, on his way to visit his daughter in the countryside. The black cab pulled him away from London City Airport, inconspicuous enough and just out of the way enough for Sherlock to be untrackable with obscured windows and clambering out the back entrance. </p>
<p> But Sherlock was not on his way to meet John as soon as he left the airport, as the reader might assume. No, he was going to meet Mycroft Holmes in a secluded warehouse on the east side of Stratford. Not the nicest place to be, especially from arriving at London City airport where there was barely anywhere interesting in the main concourse, excepting a WH Smith where the lady over the counter looked at him rather strangely as he passed. Sherlock took notice of everything, the plane time schedule that had just arrived, the cafe his cab driver had suddenly left to come pick him up at a moment's notice, and deduced a single pilot by his left thumb. The thought made him think of John and his lips curled upwards into a soft smile. </p>
<p>He was looking most ragged, with his usually short curly hair that women fawned over down to his shoulders in dreadlocks, his ribcage almost visible from how skinny he had become on his travels through most of Europe, several cuts and wounds on his abdomen and neck that he covered with his usual coat. He had just been able to switch the prisoner uniform he'd been confined in for about two weeks to parts of the outfit in which he'd arrived. The rest had been burnt upon his imprisonment. His hands were shaking with nervousness as he was quickly ushered into the warehouse. It was all very overwhelming, he was trying to get a grip on his surroundings. London, he knew like the back of his hand, which came in handy for criminal cases. Stratford, not so much. All a part of Mycroft's scheme. And speak of the devil, here was his brother at the table in the center of the room, apparently shocked into silence at Sherlock's appearance.</p>
<p>"Sh-Sherlock..."</p>
<p>His eyes drifted over the detectives cuts, his hair, his greater injuries, his general unkept looks. Never before had Sherlock heard Mycroft stutter, never had he seen his brother look so alarmed. As if his little decoy of sending him off to deal with the criminal network had caused him more harm than he realized. Come to think of it, when *was* the last time Mycroft had called him by his first name? Always 'brother dear' or 'for gods sake.' Now all the masks of pretentiousness seemed to have fallen at a single glance. He'd lost weight, and had been to his orthodontist that morning.</p>
<p>"Brother dear," Sherlock replied in his cracked voice, severely dehydrated even from the measly cup of water he'd been offered on the plane in first class. "Rather grim location. It suits. Have you moved office?" </p>
<p>"Sherlock, for gods sake-" Mycroft pinched his nose, ah, *there* was the Mycroft he remembered. "How long have you been in the prison camp? The truth, this time. When we spoke on the phone you said two days." </p>
<p>"My time is limited, Mycroft," Sherlock growled, coming forward into the light, which only made matters worse. "Tell me exactly what you know about what harm John could potentially cause himself today and why you've called me here." </p>
<p>"I doubt he'd take much joy in seeing you kneed in the stomach and with a dislocated shoulder, tossed against a cell wall and tugged by the hair- brother, are those burn marks?" Mycroft stood now, reaching across the table and taking Sherlock's hand to examine the charred skin. "Sherlock Holmes, how long have you been in the prison camp?"</p>
<p>"Tell me what I need to know about John!" Sherlock shouted, his voice deep, gravelly. </p>
<p>The brothers had entered an intense staring contest which neither seemed to want to break first. Sherlock being the taller of the two had more of a stance when it came to intimidation, he knew how to make himself seem threatening after years of putting up with the world looking down on him and casting him out. Mycroft on the other hand, knew how to deal with Sherlock at his most difficult and emotional, more specifically how to manipulate and withhold information the detective desperately needed before he yielded any sign of the truth. </p>
<p>"Two months," Sherlock replied after a long silence.</p>
<p>"Two..." Mycroft sighed, closing his eyes, running a hand over his face. "Why weren't you in contact?" </p>
<p>"If you mean why I didn't call my dear brother and wish him many happy returns, they rather burnt my camera phone and possessions upon arrival," Sherlock muttered, pacing around nervously. "Otherwise, I would surely have sent a text for mummy's birthday." </p>
<p>"Sherlock, this is NOT A GAME!" Mycroft suddenly slammed his hands on the table. "This isn't Moriarty. This isn't London, you don't have the safety and security in your little flat, nor the protection offered willingly by John Watson." </p>
<p>"Brother, as ever, you are wrong and naive to a fault," Sherlock growled. "This is every bit Moriarty as the case of the terrified children in the sweet shop. This is every bit Moriarty as the bomb jackets he latched onto innocent people to take their own life least I mess up. These *horrific* people, I could not rest until I had made sure that the camp was shut down. They are every bit as cruel and insane as he, perhaps even more now that their boss is dead. Each trying to climb the ranks to see who can take over. And I was making progress, very ample progress that was about to conclude the night that *you*, Mycroft, called me back here and ruined everything. Now, tell me what needs to be done about John, and why you've brought me back to the one place I *cannot* be." </p>
<p>Mycroft's expression changed under the single glowing light he attached to the warehouse. It was then Sherlock realized he was in fact familiar with this building. The Hansel and Grettle house he had dubbed it, it was where Moriarty had taken the children to eat the chemical laced sweets as part of his twisted fairytale to dethrone the detective. His eyes drifted over the dried, bloody cuts around Sherlock's nose and the bruised eye his brother had taken in the name of revenge and peace. </p>
<p>"You *have* been away from London for too long, brother dear," Mycroft said in a soft voice. "I'll send in a replacement for your camera phone. Relocate you to somewhere with less noise. Now does Norway sound?" </p>
<p>"Dreadful," said Sherlock, grimacing.</p>
<p>"It wasn't an offer," said Mycroft with one of his forced smiles. "Now, as for John Watson, I believe we are at least agreeable that his mental health has been in a rather considerable decline." </p>
<p>"Obviously." </p>
<p>"Well, tonight, his therapist rang me," Mycroft sighed. "After she spotted today was in his phone as "Sherlock Day", he said these exact words. 'I'm going to see him again, I'm sure of it.'" </p>
<p> Upon hearing these words, Sherlock froze. He knew then why it was so immediate that he should return to London, even if it had to derail his entire plan in progress to take down a prison camp. John Watson's life was at stake, and that was more important. This told Sherlock multiple things at once, as he was sure Mycroft would be aware. John had been unstable since the fall and Mycroft had a constant watch on him through his therapist, as they agreed. The brothers had gotten lucky with that one, and were both glad that John hadn't switched to another agency in the time since Richenbach. It would be harder to track down that way, but if anyone could do it, Mycroft Holmes could. It also told Sherlock that John hadn't kept in contact with anyone that reminded him of the times at Baker Street, Molly, Lestrade or Mike would have alerted Mycroft immediately at the slightest sound of disturbance. And it told him that he no longer resided at 221B, else Mrs. Hudson would have done something about the gun.</p>
<p>So...how best to approach this? A disguise was the ultimate conclusion, as had been reached en route by both brothers, and Sherlock knew Mycroft had been preparing something as he practiced different accents on his way to the car.</p>
<p>"The disguise, then?" Sherlock quirked a brow, deducing this all in a matter of seconds. "I do hope you've kept it at a minimum's risk of ridicule." </p>
<p>"Jean Arcelin," Mycroft replied, pacing the room as an assistant got out the necessary materials. "French impressionist. He was on holiday in Gloucester, but for the sake of our little outing, we've called him to London for an art exhibition opening that does not exist. He's currently unconscious in the back store room, and you have 50 minutes until the anesthetic wears off. Should be ample time for you to have a conversation with John Watson in some capacity." </p>
<p>"Without making him aware that it's me, of course," Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You do realize this is the last thing I want to be doing right now, brother dear?"</p>
<p>"My many thousand apologies for your agony," Mycroft sighed, handing over the disguise gear. "I'll leave you to get ready. And do have a shower, Sherlock, at the very least." </p>
<p>Sherlock started to ruffle through the bag that contained an expensive suit and vacation gear, including more obscure items like fake mustaches and eye contacts. It was all very elementary, he'd faked disguises more times than he could count for cases, even more since he'd been on the run. His arsenal of accents and languages came in handy, he knew French very well. </p>
<p>"Sherlock," Mycroft said as he stopped at the door. "You are aware...you *cannot* make any notion that it is really you to John. As much as it pains me to say, you can't make him aware that you've survived, just as he desperately hopes." </p>
<p>"I...know," Sherlock replied after a short pause, fumbling with the tie. "The art of disguise, after all, is learning how to hide in plain sight. I will not make John aware of my presence, I can assure you." </p>
<p>"Good," the sarcasm and doubt dripped from Mycroft's voice as he left the room. "Best of luck, brother mine." </p>
<p>Sherlock gave a deep sigh as he headed for the showers after closing the case. He practiced the routine several times before, with a snip of his long, overgrown hair to slightly shorter than his normal curls as the photo indicated, a discreet sharpening of different features with makeup and different colored eye contacts, he set to work. The end result looked nothing like Sherlock, excepting the lean build. His crisp brown hair swooped across his forehead as his green eyes glittered in the mirror, the brown suit he wore extremely fancy. He added the French touches of a hat and curled mustache at the last moment before going out the door to meet Mycroft outside, who greeted him with a grim smile. </p>
<p>"Tu bein fait," Mycroft quipped, 'you've done well.' "La voiture, monsieur." </p>
<p>"Merci," Sherlock muttered, avoiding eye contact as he got in the cab, and the door was closed after him.</p>
<p>With a final glance back at Mycroft, who was beadily glaring him down as he stood with his assistant, the cab drove off into the distance. Sherlock's hand nervously drummed against his leg, wondering if he could, for the sake of his own life, possibly keep the disguise up around a distressed, unstable, insecure John Watson. It would break him. But Mycroft knew that. Mycroft had seen to everything. </p>
<p>Sherlock was escorted to London with the precious item of John Watson's safety in his own hands. And he didn't like it one bit. <br/>.....<br/>Sherlock's heart was beating out of his chest as the cab stopped outside a typical British pub, that Sherlock was not surprised at all to find John spending his time. Especially on such a serious occasion, it was only natural for one to indulge in a slight drink. It seemed John was doing that, a lot. There were already two empty tankards on the bar next to him and he was quickly making his way through a third of the pale orange liquid. *Christ.* </p>
<p>Sherlock thanked the cab driver and slammed the door more harshly than he intended as he straightened up and looked nervously around himself. Getting his bearings. He was back in London after so long, thank god, finally- somewhere in Mayfair, it seemed. A tiny pub off the corner streets, just out the way enough to John's liking. He did attract attention in the main parts of London sometimes for his blog's newfound popularity. Sherlock took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the familiar scent, there was something about the breeze in London that kept him alive- and opened the door. He took a few steps inside the dusty pub, very old and dusty. </p>
<p>John sat at the far end of the bar next to a row of empty seats, across from a couple who were making obnoxiously loud commentary about the current match and a few lonely drunkards at the high end tables. Sherlock stepped forward- deep breath... gods, John looked a mess. He didn't think he could do this. He saw John's hand tremble as he swigged another ale, promptly dropping the glass as it shattered. A drunk nearby gave an annoying, slurred 'waheyy!' as others clapped, but John looked utterly miserable, even more when he saw who he had almost hit.</p>
<p>"Oh, shit- I'm so sorry," John scrambled from his chair, hastening to find a napkin. "God- I wasn't..." </p>
<p>"Ah, zer is no harm done," Sherlock replied in his accent. "We all 'ave been in ze pits, no?" </p>
<p>"French?" John raised an eyebrow. "Er- could say that. At least we have the pubs." </p>
<p>Sherlock took a deep breath, this was his test. John seemed utterly oblivious that it was him, even up close under a bright bar light. Sherlock took his chance while he had it. </p>
<p>"Monsieur, this seat is not taken?" said Sherlock. "Ze day is absolute disaster, I would not mind a pint." </p>
<p>John finally, finally, looked into Sherlock's eyes after so long. Sherlock saw the hurt, the betrayal and the utter sadness in his gaze. </p>
<p>It was then he realized he had made a monumental mistake.<br/>.....</p>
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